It was not difficult to flush with embarrassment. The sheepish, knowing smile was more of a stretch, but Radu had had much practice. “Thank you, Sultan, for the beautiful estate. She is overjoyed with the process of making it home. I am afraid I was quite in the way, and have already been banished until she has everything precisely the way she wants it.”
The men laughed knowingly. Kumal’s smile was soft. Not for the first time, Radu wondered if he knew the true nature of his marriage to Nazira. But he did not have the courage to ask. If Kumal did not know, what would he think of Radu if he found out?
Mehmed gestured toward a chair near his. Radu sat, wishing he could sink down and close his eyes.
The home was lovely. A secluded estate, large enough to support a woman and her maid, a village within easy distance to purchase what their gardens and livestock did not supply. Nazira could not stop crying as she went from room to room, holding hands with Fatima. Radu had the spare bedroom, a warm and bright space. He did not anticipate visiting much. He held Nazira dear, but hers was a happiness so complete that it threatened to canker his soul. He did not want jealousy to cast any shade on her life with Fatima. And it had been agony for him to be that far from Mehmed.
Just as it was now agony to be this close.
A page came to the door, interrupting the conversation, which had shifted to crop plans. The boy bowed, trembling, and announced the arrival of an envoy from Constantinople.
Mehmed’s eyebrows rose, though it was his only discernable reaction. Other men in the room gasped or whispered in hushed tones. Though many countries had sent envoys with gifts and elaborate proclamations of congratulations, they had not expected one from Constantinople.
Mehmed gave Radu an imperceptible glance. Radu nodded toward Halil.
His face open and at ease, Mehmed turned to Halil. “How do you advise me? Should I see them immediately or make them wait?”
Halil’s chest puffed like a tiny bird chirping its importance to the world. “I think it would be wise to see them right now, Sultan.”
“Very well. Send them in.”
Three men entered. They were dressed in vibrant yellows, blues, and greens, and wore red boots. Each layer of elaborately stitched and brocaded clothing was styled to reveal the layer beneath, a gaudy display of wealth. Clothing was expensive, a symbol of status. The Byzantines apparently made every effort to show as much of their clothing at one time as possible. Large hats like the sails of ships covered their heads, and each man held something in his hands.
Halil stood. “I present the sultan, the Shadow of God on Earth, the Glory of the Ottoman Empire, Mehmed the Second.”
The three men bowed respectfully, though they did not remove their hats. “We come on behalf of Constantine the Eleventh Dragaš Palaiologos, emperor of Byzantium, Caesar of Rome, bearing gifts and petitions.”
They were invited forward. The gift, sent to honor Mehmed’s ascension to the throne, was a jewel-encrusted book, colorfully illuminated with gold leaf accents. After admiring it, Mehmed passed the book to Radu.
As always, Radu felt a thrill opening a book. There had not been many in the castle at Tirgoviste, but the Ottoman Empire was so wealthy there were many books. This one, written in Latin, told the story of Saint George slaying the dragon.
Radu knew the story from his childhood. A holy knight, wandering through a heathen land, discovered a kingdom terrorized by a venomous dragon. The king’s daughter had been chosen by lottery to be that day’s sacrifice. Vowing to save her, Saint George fought and tamed the dragon. He led the princess and the dragon back to the city, holding the entire kingdom hostage under threat of death until all inhabitants agreed to convert to Christianity. His holy mission accomplished, Saint George finally slew the dragon.
The book was an illuminated, ancient story of a threat. Radu looked up at the envoy to find one member, a young man with clear gray eyes, watching him intently. The man blushed and looked away.
“An interesting choice of books,” Mehmed said, amusement dancing on his face.
Next, a letter from Constantine was read aloud, words as elaborate and ornate as the swirling borders of the book. Radu tried to pay attention, but there was so much circular praise he soon lost interest and let the sentences wash over him, lulling him half to sleep. It sounded like the church of his youth—in love with its own voice, cold and inaccessible.
Again he caught the gray-eyed young man staring at him. Radu did not know what it meant. Perhaps the young man was struggling to pay attention to the reading of the letter, too.
Then the name Orhan was spoken, jarring him out of the strange game of trading stares he had been playing.